the 401’s for robo-sharks:
constant exits into flat cornfields
with occasional Tim Horton’s hidden
in an eddy. A stagnant stream with a
median strip, max 100 km/h, plus provincial
police to prove it. Halfway from Montreal
to Toronto, from Canadien to Maple Leaf,
almost abdicating into Kingston and that’s where
it is:
the flyway. The real Upper Canada, cloud-close,
in skeins stitching Southward. At cross-current to
our traffic, a thousand islands of birdness, goose-ness,
feathered flurries in a St-Lawrence of the
sky
peninsulas of wings. Presqu’ile tails. A whole
archipelago of migration un-anchored from
sub-arctica, flowing on a river of magnets and
honks. Their sea is summer, somewhere. The horn
in my wheel down here has no such seasonality,
no yawp or joy. It’s solidity is its demise and its sure
destination is nestlessness.
